


The Adventure Of The Second Stain (1886)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [41]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Framing Story, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Minor Character Death, Secrets, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 03:57:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10689291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: An unexpected find in the Wild West of the United States leads to the re-opening of a case of murder which had resulted in a man being hung – a man who had to have been innocent. But then, who was responsible for the death of young Alaric Milchester? Unless Sherlock can find out, the characters of the others present that fateful evening will be stained for life.And someone is keeping secrets....





	The Adventure Of The Second Stain (1886)

The Brackhampton Hall Affair arose out of events that had occurred not long after I had 'lost' Sherlock, and did not make much of an impression on me as unlike many murder cases, it had seemed quite straightforward. I generally avoided looking at such stories during those empty years, as they reminded me too much of the man who would certainly have solved them quite easily. I was low enough at the time without making matters even worse.

I should also say that this case was amongst several which showed an important facet of Sherlock's work that was often overlooked, even by many readers of my stories about him. Often it was not just a question of 'who done it?, but almost equally importantly 'who didn't done it?' (I know full well that a certain blue-eyed someone is rolling their eyes at my mangling of the English language as I write this, so he can stop right now!). What I mean, and what this case in particular showed, was that finding the guilty party was important not just for the victim's friend and family and for securing justice, but also for those others who stood accused. Six men in a room, one of whom had been shot dead – but who had shot him? And critically, who had not shot him? The innocent parties had to once more live their lives under a cloud of suspicion until the guilty man was found.

This case was also memorable in that it was my fellow doctor Peter Greenwood who brought it to my attention, as he was brother to one of the four 're-accused'. We were the last doctors at the surgery one day, and were sitting down for two well-deserved whiskies when I observed that he looked unusually tired.

“It's my brother Rory”, he said, stifling a yawn. “Have you seen the newspaper today?”

“I have not”, I said. “Sherlock was looking for an article this morning, and he had thrown the pages all over the room before I got to it. I only hope that he has reassembled it for this evening!”

Peter smiled, and handed me the Times.

“Main article”, he said.

I read where he had pointed, and my eyes widened. The Brackhampton Hall Affair!

+~+~+

It had happened during the bitter autumn of that fateful year of 'Eighty-Three, a tragedy at the Berkshire home of Lord and Lady Milchester. Following dinner, six gentlemen had adjourned to a room for a game of poker, after which they had decided to attempt a séance, it being All Hallow's Eve. It had barely gotten underway when there had been the sound of a gunshot; the lights were turned on, and Lord Milchester's second son Alaric lay dying. His last words were the name of his friend Mr. Nicholas Cartwright, an American who had been staying with the family and had been sat next to him at the table. Cartwright had been tried and found guilty, but the British government had agreed that as an American citizen, the United States government should try him as well, and decide on his final punishment. That punishment had been death by hanging.

The matter had thus seemed to have been resolved, but just over a month ago there had been a shocking new development. One of the maids at the Hall, Alice, had developed a crush on the young American, and had slipped away to the smoking-room that adjoined where the young men were so she would watch him through the grille. She had been observing him throughout the business, and rherefore knew that he could not have been the killer. Unfortunately being in her position she had felt unable to speak out, but a few months back she had contracted the dreaded consumption and, before dying, had passed on her confession to a priest, with instructions that it be given to the authorities once she had gone. It was patently clear that Nicholas Cartwright could not have fired that fatal shot – which meant that someone else in the room had to have done so. Four people - and three were once more under an unfair shadow of suspicion.

“Why does this concern you?” I asked.

“Because my elder brother Rory is the Milchesters' doctor, and he was one of the six people in that room”, Peter said gravely. “People will talk, and for a doctor, that sort of character black mark is deadly, no matter how real or not it may be. It was bad enough after the murder; he lost a lot of patients initially, and they did not all come back even when poor Mr. Nicholas Cartwright was convicted. You know what people say about no smoke without fire. This second stain on his reputation could finish him.”

I agreed, not knowing that, some two years hence, I would experience that 'smoke' myself, with some far-reaching consequences.

+~+~+

I was still musing the problem of my colleague's brother when I arrived home that evening, to find Sergeant Henriksen just leaving our rooms. 

“Not a case, I'm afraid, doctor”, he grinned. “The local Boys' Home is doing a raffle, and I was soliciting a donation from Mr. Holmes.”

“Then I must certainly buy a ticket”, I said, fishing into my pocket for some spare coins. “I thought that they were doing well for funds, though. I had to treat one of the staff there the other week, and I noticed that they were completely replacing the roof.”

Years of working with patients who often told only half-truths had made me alert to moments like this. Sherlock and the sergeant both looked as if I had caught them out in some way. Henriksen handed me my ticket, thanked me, took the coins and all but fled the room. I looked hard at my friend.

“What is it?” he asked, far too innocently.

“There is something that you are not telling me”, I said suspiciously. “If it is to do with a case, then of course I understand, but I had hoped....”

“Watson”, he sighed. “I have no case. Unless you wish me to investigate your friend's brother's problems.”

I baulked.

“How did you know about that?” I demanded. Sherlock waved a (mercifully reassembled) newspaper at me.

“The article mentions that Doctor Rory Greenwood, one of the four suspects as they are now described, has a brother in practice in London. There is also a rather bad sketch, which bears a limited resemblance to your friend, perhaps surprising given how awful such pictures usually are. Were you going to ask for my help?”

“Only if you are not busy at the moment”, I muttered.

“I am never too busy to help a friend in need”, he said firmly.

I smiled in gratitude, my questions over Henriksen's strange behaviour forgotten. 

For the moment....

+~+~+

Our journey to Brackhampton was unusual in that it was to prove an increasingly rare experience of broad-gauge travel. The Great Western Railway, connecting London with Bristol and the West Country, had originally been built to a wider gauge (by nearly fifty per cent) than the rest of the country, but the increasing demands to move items across England unhindered by a gauge change had forced them to largely convert to the standard four foot eight and a half inches of everywhere else. By this time, some six years before the final conversion of the main line to standard (or, as Great Western officials sneeringly called it, 'narrow') gauge, only the main line remained on the wider gauge, reminding me of the same journey I had undertaken some – ugh! - twelve years ago when I had first travelled to Oxford to meet the man sat across from me. I smiled at the memory.

“Remembering being tackled to the floor?” he grinned.

That got rid of the smile. I scowled (it was so not a pout) and huffed indignantly.

We arrived in the small market town where we were to meet Peter and his brother shortly before lunch. We found the two doctors in a small cafe in the centre of town, where the four of us sat down to a pleasant meal. Rory Greenwood was, I have to say, absolutely nothing like his brother; indeed, had I not known that they were siblings, I should never have suspected it. Whilst Peter was of average height and blond, his brother was tall and dark, with something of the air of an undertaker about him. Then again, if I had been subject to the chain of events that he had been of late, I should doubtless have looked equally depressed.

“I had another patient give up on me this morning”, the man said mournfully. “Mrs. Green from Riddings Farm sent a message to say she was cancelling her appointment, as she was seeing a doctor in Wantage. That's nearly twice as far from her house as the town, so I am sure it is because of the case being re-opened.”

“Unless we find the true murderer of Lord Alaric, then all of you in that room will remain under the shadow of suspicion”, Sherlock' said, frowning at his coffee as if it had displeased him. “Please describe the people who were there, and then tell me what happened.”

The doctor thought for a moment.

“There were six of us in the room that fateful evening”, he said. “Myself, Lord Alaric and Mr. Nicholas Cartwright were three. Cartwright was an American over here for business; a bit of a buck but a decent enough chap. Then there was Mr. Thomas Wolstenholme. He is in his fifties, a local councillor for the town, and wants to become its member of parliament. He has been selected for the Liberal Party and has – or at least had - a good chance of success at the forthcoming election, so he is probably even more anxious than me to get the whole thing cleared up. Then there was Lord St. Clair, Vincent I think his first name is. About sixty, a bit of a pompous ass and far too fond of his food, but otherwise not a bad sort. Local landowner with a decent reputation around these parts; it is said that he does not really care what people think of him. And last, Mr. Brian Ferrers, the psychic. He is a local businessman; he was in the process of buying one of the farms off of Lord Alaric's father. Quite young, I do not think that he is much past thirty.”

I smiled at his rating 'not much past thirty' as quite young. I knew that there were at least fifteen years between Peter and his elder brother, and it was good that he considered my humble thirty-four years of age to be so.....

Damnation, Sherlock was giving me that Look again!

“Did any of them have any reason to kill Lord Alaric?” my friend asked, mercifully putting aside his maddening mind-reading tendencies.

“None that I can see”, the doctor said, scratching his head. “Lord Alaric was a bit of a young jay, but we tend not to shoot people for that, or the British aristocracy would be decimated!”

I smiled at that.

“There had been nine at dinner; the six of us, Lord and Lady Milchester, and Miss Anne Barstow, their ward.”

“Can you describe them as well, please?” Sherlock interrupted. The doctor looked as surprised as I felt, but did so.

“Lord Edward Milchester is sixty-eight now, and a member of the House of Lords. Very much your typical aristocrat, but always pays his bills on time, which as a country doctor I have come to appreciate. As I am sure your friend here would testify, many up and down the social spectrum could learn that particular habit! Lady Penelope Milchester is fifty-nine, and pretty much a female version of her husband. A little terrifying when she loses her temper, I am told, although I have never seen it. Miss Barstow is twenty, and the sole daughter of an old classmate of Lady Milchester's, a Mrs. Edith Barstow. She and her husband died whilst visiting India – her husband had a government post out there, I think – and her will requested Lady Milchester to become guardian to Anne. Alaric was the Milchesters' younger son; their eldest Wilfred works in the City, and both their daughters are married and live around London somewhere.”

“Is she pretty, this Miss Anne Barstow?”

I stared at Sherlock in surprise. That seemed an odd question, although judging from the doctor's reddening face, perhaps it had been justified.

“It was rumoured that she had taken the fancy of Lord Alaric, but was not receptive to his advances”, the doctor conceded, suddenly finding the table-cloth quite fascinating for some reason. “I think – and I may be misjudging him here – that the young jay was annoyed because his mother would not try to persuade Miss Barstow to accept his suit.”

“And you are the family doctor?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes. They did not like my predecessor, Ralston, for some reason - you know how fallings-out in country areas can persist - and used a London doctor, but both those fellows retired shortly before the tragic events of that evening, and all three became my patients.”

“I see”, Sherlock' said. “Pray continue with your recital of the events of that evening.”

“After dinner, the six of us adjourned to play poker for a while”, the doctor said. “Lord Milchester, who had suffered a hunting accident only a month or so before, retired to his room, and his wife went with him, though not before adjuring us to continue for as long as we wished. Miss Barstow went to the music-room to play the piano.”

“How do you know that?” Sherlock asked.

“The music-room lies directly next to the games-room, where the six of us were.”

“Is there a connecting door?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes. We must have played for some little time. Whitmore, the butler, brought us drinks about halfway through, I recall.”

“Who won?”

“Pardon?” the doctor asked, clearly surprised.

“The poker”, Sherlock said. “Who was ahead and who was behind?”

The doctor had to think about that for a moment.

“I recall that Lord Alaric finished some way down”, he said eventually. “He was quite off his game. I was doing the best, I think, though there was little in it. We did not play for high stakes, and only for an hour or so.”

Sherlock nodded, and the doctor continued with his narrative.

“I remember that Miss Barstow came through the connecting door and spoke to both Mr. Cartwright and Lord Alaric”, he said. “It was the latter who suggested a séance, since Mr. Ferrers was with us. Miss Barstow was in the room with us at the time, but did not like the idea, and returned to her playing.”

“Did she close the door behind her?”

The doctor frowned as he tried to remember.

“I think that it must have been left slightly open”, he said at last. “The music seemed louder than earlier. Anyway, we doused the lights and opened the French doors, to create an atmosphere, I suppose. It was quite warm for the end of October. I remember St. John tripped when he returned to the table; there was no moonlight from outside or anything. I dreaded that we were supposed to hold hands, but Ferrers said that was just an old wives' tale.”

“Were the curtains drawn across the open doors?” Sherlock asked.

“Almost completely. There was a slight breeze, and I remember them billowing in a little. We had barely started when there was the flash of a gun going off. It seemed like an age later, but it must have been under half a minute, that Miss Barstow opened the connecting door and light from her room lit up ours. Lord Alaric had been shot through the heart, and the gun lay in front of young Mr. Cartwright. As you know, his fingerprints were later found on it, though he denied everything. The jury did not believe him.”

“Is there not a test for gunshot residue these days?” I asked. “Surely that would have cleared Mr. Cartwright?”

“There is, but as it happened he and Lord Alaric had been out shooting on the estate earlier that day”, Rory Greenwood explained. 

I was getting better at reading my friend. I was sure that there was no reaction there, yet somehow I knew that that particular fact had struck him as important. 

“Why did no-one turn on the light in your room?” he asked.

“It was one of those gas-lights that need a flame to get it started”, the doctor explained. “I remember now; Ferrers was trying to find a match when Miss Barstow opened the door.”

Sherlock pressed his fingers together in thought. I wondered what his next move would be. 

It was not what I expected.

“I cannot take this case.”

The three of us looked at him in shock.

“Why?” I asked.

Sherlock looked sternly at both the doctors. 

“Gentlemen, your profession entails people telling you things, and then you making a recommendation based on that information”, he said sharply. “So does mine. And when the information is deficient or worse, misleading, the recommendation is likely to be wrong or even counter-productive. Doctor Greenwood, you have not been straight with me.”

The man gasped.

“I assure you, Mr. Holmes....”

“You are withholding a key piece of information. I can hardly put a puzzle together if there is a piece missing, can I?”

Rory Greenwood sighed.

“How did you know?”

“Because I can picture a sequence of events that will explain perfectly what happened that evening”, Sherlock' said, “except that something is missing. Two things in fact, but I suspect that you can only supply one of them, although you have inadvertently hinted at the other. What did you see happen earlier in the evening?”

The doctor shook his head.

“I do not wish to speak ill of the dead”, he said mulishly.

“Doctor, unless we find a murderer, the only things that will be dead is your career, and possibly those of the other parties in that room”, Sherlock said firmly. “A number of totally innocent people, including your good self, deserve to live their lives free of the cloud of suspicion. Now, tell me what you saw.”

I thought that he was going to continue to hold back, but Sherlock's azure gaze was his undoing. He sighed heavily.

“Miss Barstow kissing Mr. Cartwright”, he admitted. "I did not lie in court. No-one asked me about it."

Semantics, I thought dryly. Sherlock thought again.

“Are there any other doctors in the town?” he asked.

“No”, the doctor said. “Ralston still lives here, though. Brackhampton is a small place, and mine is the only practice. But if this drags on, I will have to sell up.”

“I do not think that it will go on much further”, Sherlock said, and I saw the hope light up in the doctor's eyes. “Gentlemen, we have two further calls to make in your fair town, then I think the case may be resolved. Hopefully we can get them both done today, for I think, to my own astonishment, I am actually missing the mess that is London Town!”

+~+~+

Sherlock stopped at the town's main post office to buy a stamp, and came out with directions to our next stop. It turned out to be a small white cottage, with a beautifully well-kept garden, the home of the retired Doctor Charles Ralston, who now lived there with his sister Marsha. She was a formidable lady and it took some time for even Sherlock's charm to sidle past her defences. However, she was soon bringing us tea and refreshments, and giving Sherlock that awful simpering look that almost all women, regardless of their age, seemed wont to do.

_How did he do that?_

“Thank you for agreeing to see us, doctor”, my friend said.

“The famous detective and his medical cohort-cum-scribe”, Doctor Ralston smiled. “Am I to assume that you arrival in our little town is connected with the newspaper speculation about Lord Alaric's real killer?”

“Indeed, sir”, Sherlock' said. “I appreciate, of course, that doctor-patient confidentiality, which Watson here goes on about _ad nauseam”_ (I scowled at him for that remark) “precludes you from revealing any patient details, but I was hoping that you could prove a theory of mine. I do not wish for details; a simple yes or no will suffice.”

He handed the doctor a folded piece of paper, which the old man read. His face turned almost purple as he did so, and his hand shook.

“You understand the.... consequences of this, sir?” he said, his voice breaking as he spoke.

“I do, sir”, Sherlock' said. “But I also understand the consequences of doing nothing. Innocent people risk having their livelihoods ruined by gossip, and only the truth can set them free.”

The old man sighed, and handed back the paper.

“It is true”, he said. “I so wish that it were not.”

“Thank you”, Sherlock' said quietly, rising to his feet.

+~+~+

“What was all that about?” I asked as we walked to get a cab.

“I did not think that I would ever be glad to hear of someone dying”, he said enigmatically. “Come. We must visit Brackhampton Hall.”

+~+~+

Lady Milchester received us with the manners one would rightly expect of the British aristocracy. 

“Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Holmes”, she said, and I detected a hint of wariness in her voice.

“Did you know?” Sherlock said.

I started at the question, which seemed blunt to the point of rudeness, but before I could object our hostess answered.

“Yes”, she said, averting her eyes.

“How?” Sherlock asked.

“Anne and that young American were about as subtle as the rest of his countrymen”, she said with a small smile. “I caught them on at least two occasions beforehand, or would have done had I not doubled back out of the room they were in at the time. If I saw them, then I am sure that.... others did too.”

Sherlock nodded.

“How is your husband?” he asked, almost gently this time.

“Sickly”, she answered. “That second fall almost did for him. Doctor Greenwood says that he will not last the month.”

Sherlock nodded. She looked at me.

“Has he told you everything yet?” she asked.

“He always keeps me in the dark until the last minute!” I almost sulked. 

She smiled at that, and turned back to Sherlock.

“I saw him earlier that evening”, she said. “It is partly my fault that that poor, innocent young man is dead, and when my time comes, I shall answer for it. I saw Alaric showing him the guns and getting him to handle them, and I did wonder that they went out without anyone else for a morning shoot. I wondered, but I did nothing.”

“Did you know about Doctor Ralston?” Sherlock' asked.

“What about Doctor Ralston?” I asked. “I am all at sea here!”

Sherlock looked at Lady Milchester almost as if he was seeking permission for something. She nodded, and he turned back to me.

“Lord Alaric was not killed”, he explained. “He committed suicide. Except, it was also murder.”

I stared at him, even more completely lost.

“Some time before the terrible night, Lord Alaric has started to feel unwell”, Sherlock explained. “He knows that his parents never use Doctor Ralston, so he goes to him. He is diagnosed with a fatal disease, and only given a short time to live, most probably about twelve months. Presumably he is told that the disease cannot be passed on, and he fixes his hopes on wooing his mother's ward Miss Barstow, and having a son by her so that he can live on through him.”

“But, he soon discovers, Miss Barstow has eyes only for the young American, Mr. Nicholas Cartwright. She would choose a foreigner over an English lord! He is angered beyond all measure, and plots a terrible revenge – the murder of his rival. Alaric Milchester may be the one to be found shot dead, but it is Nicholas Cartwright who will be executed for a murder that he did not commit – and, only to be discovered too late, that he could not possibly have committed.”

I was shocked.

“He builds up a friendship, takes the man out shooting to get gunshot residue on his hands, and shares his private gun collection with him before dinner. Of course this is solely to get his rival's fingerprints on the murder weapon. He even manages to slip the key to the gun cupboard into the man's pocket, where it is discovered the following day. Further damning evidence against him.”

“He has arranged that Mr. Ferrers is invited for the All Hallow's Eve dinner, and it is perfectly natural for him to suggest a séance. As soon as the room is dark enough, he acts. He shoots himself, knowing that Cartwright's fingerprints will be found on the gun, and the gun cupboard key in his pocket. His 'friend' is as good as hung.”

I stared in silence. Lady Milchester stood and walked slowly over to the fireplace.

“You know what I am going to ask of you, Mr, Holmes”, she said, her voice unsteady.

“You have it”, he said. “The open window will help; I can use my family connections to feed the press some speculation about a mystery gunman climbing the balcony. As I am sure you know, they will move onto some other story once it has been established that an outsider committed this murder.”

“Thank you”, she said quietly.

“We are sorry to have troubled you”, he said, sounding sincere as always. “We will take our leave now, Lady Milchester. Good evening.”

He ushered me out.

+~+~+

“So”, I said. “Suicide.”

“And murder”, he said. “It was only chance that exposed the truth, although nearly ruining the lives and careers of three innocent men in the process. Including your friend's brother.”

“Poor Lord Alaric”, I said. “Hating someone enough to want to kill them.”

“'First do no harm'”, Sherlock said. 

“The Hippocratic Oath”, I said. “I do not think that I could ever hate someone enough to kill them.”

To my surprise, Sherlock shook his head.

“Everyone has their trigger, doctor”, he said. “Everyone has something, or more usually someone, they care enough about to kill for. Even doctors. We are, every one of us, only human.”

I thought about that as our cab took us back to the station and the train home. Who did I feel strongly enough about, if anyone, that I would kill for? Was there anyone?

I had an uneasy feeling that I would not like the answer to that question.

+~+~+

We returned to London in silence, and were quiet all evening. I was supposed to have the next day off, but there had been an outbreak of whooping-cough at the Boys' Home that Henriksen had been fund-raising for, and I was called out to take a look at a particularly serious case. The Matron of the Home insisted on being present during my examination (much to my young patient's mortification, I might add!), and was clearly keen to hear my prognosis.

“I can find nothing else wrong with young Albert”, I said, ruffling the boy's hair. “I think he must just be naturally more susceptible to the strain that is running through the place. The cough apart, he is in good condition.”

I knew from experience how many of these places worked. The late great Charles Dickens had been all too accurate in his portrayal of trustees who took charitable donations for their charges and then lived the high life, leaving the boys or girls in their 'care' starving and ill-clothed. But Albert, like the other boys I had examined here, looked well-fed and happy. And wonder of wonders, even that terminally snail-paced team of British workmen had finished the repairs to the roof. Miracles could happen, apparently.

“And we all know who we have to thank for that, Albert, don't we?” she said, in that irritating voice that, I knew, was making the boy cringe as much as I myself was. Albert nodded, and glanced hopefully at the door.

“The people who fund this place”, I guessed, closing my bag,

“Dear Mr. Holmes, of course”, she said, as if it was obvious. 

“Sir Charles”, I agreed.

She looked at me in astonishment, and flushed bright red. I stared back at her. 

“ _Not_ Sir Charles”, I deduced, and if anything she got even redder. “Matron....”

“Not my place to say, sir”, she said quickly, almost dragging Albert out the door. I stared after her in astonishment.

+~+~+

I arrived home to find Sergeant Henriksen waiting for me, but no Sherlock. I was surprised.

“He is with the Family, sir”, the sergeant said. “He said that he will be back by half-past.”

I looked at the clock, and saw that I only had five minutes to wait. 

“I had a strange encounter at your Boys' Home today”, I said conversationally. “The Matron said that 'Mr. Holmes' was funding the place, but when I said Sir Charles, she went very red and....”

I stopped. Even with his dark skin, Henriksen was doing exactly the same as the Matron had earlier. He looked hopefully at the door, but I was partly blocking the way, and not inclined to move.

“Tell me what is going on, sergeant”, I demanded. 

“She told you truth, sir”, he said. “Mr. Holmes does fund the place. Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

I stared in stunned silence.

“The money he has from his family pays for this place, and he spends some of his savings and anything he gets from the cases on the Home, sir”, Henriksen explained. “I'm sorry, I.... thought he might have told you.”

I heard the distinctive sound of footsteps, and tuneless humming.

“Apparently not”, I managed, and before Sherlock came through the door, I made my escape to my room to change, two thoughts in my mind.

Why had he not told me? And what else was he keeping secret from me?

+~+~+

The cases were coming thick and fast, now, and in our next one, Sherlock and I reached the end of the line!


End file.
